


Two Words

by editingatwork



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, hockey boys in love, hook ups, just a lot of fun and fluff honestly, language barriers, or are they, pick up lines kinda, so disgustingly in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 14:41:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10336852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/editingatwork/pseuds/editingatwork
Summary: Kent has some choice words to say to the Providence Falconers when he meets them on a morning jog.





	1. It Wasn't A Suggestion But I'll Take It

In Kent’s defense, Jack thinks, Kent has never actually met Tater in person, off the ice. From the times Jack has talked to Tater, he knows that they’ve always managed to just miss each other–at playoffs, at press conferences, at charities, at the All Star games, even at the Olympics. Most times when one of them has gone, the other hasn’t, and if they are both there, they never manage to run into each other off the ice.

Now, suddenly, Jack is watching Kent’s face perform emotional acrobatics as he processes the fact that he has just run into not one, not two, but  _five_ Falconers out on a morning jog in the middle of a park.

If Jack were to look left and right, he doesn’t think his teammates would look any better. They just barely beat the Aces yesterday in a shoot-out, after all. It was a… tense game. Lots of penalties. At least two fights. Nobody was exactly nice.

Kent yanks out one ear bud and points at Jack. “Okay, so. Fuck you,” he says conversationally, and fine, Jack will take that as his due.

Then Kent points at Marty. “Fuck you.”

Marty rolls his eyes.

Kent points at Thirdy. “Fuck you.”

“Whatever, man.”

Now Kent points at Tater, and here, he stutters for a minute while his gaze starts at Tater’s shoes and goes all the way up the man’s massive legs, solid waist, buff chest, broad shoulders, soft brown eyes. (Jack is not interested but he’s also not blind, and Kent Parson is predictable.)

“Fuck  _me_ ,” Kent says.

“Okay,” Tater replies.

Thirdy slaps a hand over his face. “Tater, no.”

Kent stares for two seconds before snapping out of his funk and pointing firmly at Snowy. “And fuck you.”

“Fuck you, broski,” Snowy fires back, and his tone sounds like he’s talking about the weather but his crossed arms are asking if Kent wants to throw down.

Kent just waves at them and declares, “Fuck  _all_ of you,” and jogs around them to continue down the path.

Tater turns around and yells, “I’m say okay I fuck you, Parson!”

Thirdy still has his hand over his face. “Just go, man.”

Marty shakes his head. “He wasn’t serious.”

“And even if he was,” Snowy adds, “he’s a rat, remember?”

Tater frowns and looks between them, brows furrowed.

Jack smiles and pats Tater’s shoulder. “You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take, right?”

Tater’s expression brightens like the sun coming through clouds on a stormy day. “Yes. I not miss shot.” He pats Jack’s cheek and jogs off after Kent, yelling, “Little rat Ace, you wait!”

Marty sighs. “Kid…I know Parson is your friend, and you know him better than we do, but I really don’t think he was serious. Tater’s just gonna be disappointed.”

Jack looks back. Far off down the path behind them, Tater has caught up to Kent and is jogging with him. Kent looks confused and embarrassed but not unhappy. Jack smiles. “He’ll be okay. Come on, we have to hurry if we still want decent splits.”

They continue running, five people down to four. Jack isn’t Kent’s biggest fan, but he thinks it might not be so bad if, the next time they go running when the Aces are in Providence, they end up with an extra man.


	2. It Wasn't An Invitation But Fuck It

Sometimes Kent just shouldn’t say words. When he runs into a gaggle of Falconers out on an early morning jog, his only excuse for how he reacts is the lingering annoyance of yesterday’s loss and the fact that he still hasn’t had any coffee.

“Fuck you,” he says to Jack.

“Fuck you,” to St. Martin.

“Fuck you,” to Robinson.

“Fuck  _me_ ,” to Mashkov, because goddamn.

And of course, “Fuck you,” to Goalie, so he doesn’t feel left out.

And then Kent goes on his way, only to have Mashkov catch up to him ten seconds later with a friendly, “Maybe you don’t hear me? I’m say okay, I fuck you.”

Before Kent can get out the words,  _It wasn’t an invitation!,_  Mashkov continues, “How far you run?”

“Now? Two k. I’m doing a five k total.”

“Ha, I am on four. I do last three k with you, is okay?”

Kent doesn’t know what’s happening. “Sure. If you want?”

It appears that Mashkov does want, because he runs Kent’s last three kilometers with him, doing fartleks and keeping up with Kent’s pace for a negative split at the finish. They walk half a kilometer for a cooldown and end up near Kent’s hotel.

“You are hungry?” Mashkov asks. “I know best sandwich shop in Providence, is very close from here.”

Kent looks down the road at his hotel, and then back. “You want to get lunch? Now?”

“Yes,” Mashkov replies. “Unless you don’t want?”

Kent jerks his thumb over his shoulder towards the hotel .”I was under the impression you followed me for different reasons. Like, dirty sex in my hotel room reasons.”  _Even though it wasn’t an invitation._

Mashkov scoffs. “I’m just go on run. I’m hungry. I don’t fuck on empty stomach.”

“Lunch first, fucking after?”

“Yes. Come on, shop is this way.” He waves for Kent to follow, and Kent does. “Also,” Mashkov adds, “I am pay for food. So you don’t say later I am cheap date.”

Kent barks a laugh. “Yeah, sure. I’ll do my best to put a dent in your wallet.”

“Good.” Mashkov’s smile is as bright as the damn early morning sun. “Is funny how life work, you know? Yesterday I’m dropping gloves for mess up your face, and today you ask for me to fuck you silly. Is funny, I’m never guess this is how today will go.”

Kent had not in fact meant to ask Alexei Mashkov to fuck him silly, but fuck it, it’s a new day and Mashkov is hot and Kent is starting to look forward to it. Plus, Mashkov is going to treat him to lunch. “You and me both, man,” Kent replies.

(Lunch is great. Mashkov’s right, it’s the best sandwich shop in the city. Possibly the country.)

(They go to Kent’s hotel afterwards and Mashkov does, in fact, fuck Kent silly. He also sneaks out while Kent’s in the shower, but not before leaving a note on the pillow with his phone number and a series of smilie faces. Kent takes a selfie of the hickeys blooming on his chest and sends it, along with the text,  _fuck_ me _, you animal._

Mashkov texts back, 

_okay. ))) see you in vegas next wk._

_you take me for food this time_

Kent rolls his eyes and replies,  _sure._ )


	3. It Wasn't A Misunderstanding But It Worked Out

Look, Alexei has lived in America for six years. He has watched hours of daytime TV, seen countless movies, listened to endless music, participated in thousands of conversations, done hundreds of post-games and press conferences and interviews. He has also Googled probably a million little turns of phrase that Americans, Canadians, Germans, Swedes, Fins, and every other English-speaking person around him have used that left him baffled. Alexei has drowned himself in English for half a decade. He can’t always articulate himself as well as native speakers or people who studied English in school, but he can understand the vast majority of what’s said to him. He’s also not an idiot, and he can discern differences in emphasis and context and how they affect the meaning of what’s being said.

So when a man looks him up and down with a hungry expression and says, “Fuck  _me,”_ Alexei is perfectly aware that it’s a compliment, not a come-on.

It’s a choice, not a misunderstanding, that makes him reply, “Okay.”

He keeps up the ruse all through Kent’s run, then lunch, and then back up to Kent’s hotel room. He keeps it up when Kent texts him a  _gorgeous_  picture of himself half-naked and covered in Alexei’s handiwork.

The Falconers go to Vegas, and Alexei purposely misunderstands Kent’s continued, pointed use of  _fuck ME_ in a series of texts regarding a recently published photoshoot featuring Alexei in black tie. He “misunderstands” Kent’s texts all the way into Kent’s apartment, then onto Kent’s couch, and finally into Kent’s bed. The Aces had wiped the floor with the Falcs, and Alexei takes it out on Kent’s mouth, his neck, his stomach, his cock. Kent celebrates the Aces’ win with moans and groans and an uncalled for chirp of, “You’re fucking like you played today, no hands.”

Alexei rolls him onto his back and fucks him hard, one hand tight on Kent’s cock to make him shake and cry out. “You want me be rough with you, Parson, just ask.”

Kent arches and comes.

They are the worst-kept secret in the NHL.

To be fair, though, neither of them is trying very hard to stay under the radar. 

Kent gets mic’d up for a game against St. Louis and confuses the hell out of ESPN by alternating between Russian slander and ambiguous on-ice chirps such as, “I’ve seen better pickups from drunk a-holes at five in the morning via jumbled text.”

The Aces’ Twitter makes a gif of Swoops’ face when he turns to Kent on the ice and goes, “...  _What?”_

(The drunk a-hole was Alexei, and the only thing he’d been drunk on was too much food and winning an intensive game of Words With Friends against Jack and Snowy. Although he  _had_ forgotten that Kent was in L.A. at the time and wouldn’t appreciate the avalanche of texts coming in when the sun had barely risen. Especially texts that involved sordid innuendo using bizarre vocabulary.)

After they’re both knocked from the playoffs, Kent comes to see him in Providence. They cook and make out and play a vicious game of Monopoly and go out for dinner with Thirdy, Snowy, and a few other Falcs and WAGS. They go running together, early in the morning but not  _that_  early, feet pounding the pavement and music in their ears, enjoying the company and also the mutual silence.

Alexei makes coffee in the mornings and Kent gets the toast and eggs.

“I know what you meant,” Alexei says, one insignificant Thursday while he’s spooning coffee grounds into the French press. “Last October, when you’re say ‘fuck me.’ I know what is mean, Kenechka. I know you’re not coming onto me.”

Kent doesn’t look up from where he’s stabbing the eggs into submission. “Kinda figured that out, like, three weeks in. Nobody takes that much shit  _that_  literally, Tates.”

Alexei brings the press to the stove and pours in hot water from a steaming kettle. “Fuck me, aren’t you smart one.”

“I’ll fuck you smart after breakfast,” Kent replies, and opens the overhead cupboard to get the mugs and plates.

**Author's Note:**

> me and my trash heap i call a blog are on [tumblr](http://punmasterkentparson.tumblr.com/).


End file.
